


His Body A Boat

by Romany



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-12
Updated: 2004-04-12
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romany/pseuds/Romany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sundays were for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Body A Boat

I.

Started out so simple, really. They were getting a good pounding in. Spike straddled Angel, punched him.

“You got a point here, Spike?” Rolled out from under, kicked him across the room through a Bauhaus chair. “Hey, my chair!”

“Ugly as fuck anyway.” Spike lunged back, re-straddled. “Point being, you don’t walk away while I’m talking. S’not polite.” Three punches for emphasis.

Angel game-faced, grabbed an arm. Bit. Hard.

Ow! Motherfucker! 

Oh. Yeah.

No tearing, just soft sucking as Angel’s hand stroked up his thigh.

Could do this as well as the other. Spike’s hand reached down to meet Angel’s.

 

II.

 

So yeah, he’n Angel would get a good shag in once in a while. Hit or miss, really. No telling with him. He’d just get his kit and go, after. Needed a fag anyway. Always more patrolling to do.

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

“Good as gone, mate. Tomorrow?”

“Don’t count on it.”

But tomorrow, “You coming up?”

“Might do.”

Until one night, as Spike was fixing to go, “I disconnected the smoke alarm.”

“Why’s that, then?”

Angel just reached for a lighter and a cigarette case from the nightstand. Lit two, rolled back the covers.

 

III.

 

“Let me see your eyes. C’mon, open up,” Angel said during.

“Don’t have’em closed,” Spike said, eyes half-lidded. But he opened them.

Oh Lord, now the eye-gazing. Next’ll be the hand-holding. Just like a couple of old-marrieds. Made Spike uncomfortable, was all. Felt like something it wasn’t.

But after, Angel sat on the edge of the bed, “Almost the same blue. Didn’t think...God.”

“Same...? Got a bit on the side, then?” That got him a punch in the mouth.

Spike hit back, “S’not that way anymore. Your little boy’s all grown up now, Da.”

Angel, suddenly lost, “Is he?”

 

IV.

 

Spike hid out in the bathroom. Went on long patrols. Hit a few clubs. Anything to stay clear of Angel and his moods. Could handle the punch-ups and the shagging. But this...this drove him stark raving.

“Getting enough blood?”

“How are your finances?”

Angel wanted to set him up in business away from W&H. Keep it clean. Keep him safe.

“Vampire here, can fend for myself.”

“There are forces you don’t understand...”

Well, la-di-da, just put him in a cap and short-pants and hand him a lolly. Grown he was and gone he’ll be if Angel didn’t quit it.

 

V.

 

Spike strolled into Angel’s suite stinking to high heaven of sin.

“Heard you were looking for me.” Understatement, really. For five nights, Angel barged into every demon bar and human dive.

“Hey, Spike, your daddy’s looking for ya.” With a ta and tip, out the back he’d go.

Now Angel merely crinkled his nose, “Go wash.”

Ten minutes later, Spike’s face slammed into the marble shower wall. One tooth clattered on the drain.

“You think this hurts me, Spike? Do you think I care what you do?”

Spike giggled through the blood, “Yeah, Da, hurts you worse’n it hurts me.”

 

VI.

 

“You are so predictable,” Angel laughed while standing near the security gate.

“Move, Angel, don’t want to waste your hard earned money.” Spike waved his ticket. “Non-refundable, non-transferable.”

“You’re not getting on that plane.”

“Watch me.”

“What makes you think she wants you, anyway?”

“Might not, but I’ve got options, don’t I?” Spike revealed the letter to him from Harris he found in Angel’s desk. “Federal offense to open other people’s mail.”

Panic and fury wrestled on Angel’s face until the only thing left was defeat. “Look, Spike, I don’t want you to go.”

Spike sighed, “Where’s the car, then?”

 

VII.

 

Sundays were for them. Sleep. Shag. Get high. Get pissed. Have a second, third go. Watch Nickelodeon. Even read a bit.

Not today. Angel’s all showered, dressed, and powder-fresh.

“Lord, Angel, it’s Sunday...”

“Got a meeting.”

Caught some footie. Ate. Went mad.

Knock at the door. Angel smiled, leaned into the doorframe, “Dead downstairs. Wanna go fuck around?”

More like it, innit?

Wickedness abounds; evil never sleeps. Sanderson had a debriefing. Rogers was pulling an all-dayer. Angel thought they could risk it.

In the office, breath in his ear. “Gonna fuck you, gonna make you feel it.”

Good times, yeah?

 

VIII. 

 

Angel was dipping into the classics. He had Spike pressed against his office wall. The pressure relentless. Spike went to move things along with his own hand.

“Don’t...”

So he didn’t. His fingers curled into the plaster as he rode into that electrical storm of pins and feathers. The wall cracked. Shit. He’d be damned if he’s going to be down here again with a can of paint and a putty knife because Angel couldn’t call maintenance.

So close...

The words came pouring out, babble mostly, but this:

“Fuck me, Daddy!”

Ow!

Angel pushed him into the wall, stomped off.

 

IX.

 

“Oh for the love of...what did I say now?” Spike’s the one sore and untended, but Angel wasn’t talking. He stood, arms folded, gazing out the panoramic window. Looked for all the world like Alexander surveying his bloody kingdom. Majestic, he was.

“So Daddy’s out.”

Angel looked away, sat on the couch.

Spike sat beside him, “Right. Them’s just names, Angel. Games, really. We know who we are, yeah?”

With the startled look that Angel gave him, Spike realized that Angel didn’t know. Maybe he was waiting for Spike to tell him. Lord, Angel when did you get so old?

 

X.

 

Spike only knew one thing for it. He stroked Angel’s arm, his thigh, his cock. Angel tried to pull away. Must want this a little too because Spike wasn’t on his arse. So he wreathed one arm around him, whispered, “We’re not done.”

Angel flinched.

“No, we’re not. Shhh.”

Angel relaxed, opened his thighs, leaned his head on Spike’s shoulder.

Spike sat, slick starting to stick to the leather, uncomfortable. Paid it no never mind. Wasn’t about him.

Angel clung to him, thrust up into his hand. When he came, it was with a keening wail that. Wouldn’t. Bloody. End.

 

XI.

 

With a noise like that, Special Ops came bursting in. Pulled up short at the sight, two naked vampires on the couch. Spike spread his legs more with a smirk that said, “See something you like?” He gripped Angel’s head closer so he wouldn’t have to turn, deal with this. “Sod off,” he mouthed.

Angel always claimed that Spike wasn’t a political creature. But within ten seconds, Spike knew who was friend, enemy. Take care of that mess later. Soul or no, wasn’t above getting his hand in, protecting his own.

With a curt nod, the team backed out, left them.

 

XII.

 

“Who you crying for, then?” This could only be grief. Spike knew some of that.

“My son,” Angel managed to whisper. No more words, just the breathing even the dead could manage.

What long dead by-blow was this? Angel’s tears were that of a man who did something terribly wrong. Spike wondered if he killed him, wondered if he turned him.

Was probably moldering in some Irish churchyard. He’d get Wesley to look into it in the morning.

For now, he simply wrapped his arms and legs around Angel and rocked him. His body a boat, his soul an anchor.


End file.
